The AntiTale
by Rolled-Over-Beethoven
Summary: Once upon a time in Forks, an Anti-fairy tale began...A Carlisle and Esme story.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/n: Wow, so, yeah, this just appeared in my head one day, and now, wa'la! Or whatever. A Carlisle and Esme story (because I just LOVE them!).**_

_**Chapter Song: Days Before You Came - Placebo**_

_**Disclaimer: Twilight and all recognisable settings/characters are not mine. No copyright infringement is intended, and I am making no money from this.**_

_**Chapter 1**_

Once upon a time in Forks, an Anti-fairytale began. Our story begins in a small, two up, two down house, with small, grimy windows, and a rickety old staircase - which made sneaking downstairs in the night for a secret midnight snack impossible. Much to the displeasure of the children that lived there. The house had an thick old front door, with an ugly bronze knocker that scared away anyone under the age of about twelve; and the stench of misery, despair, and unprecedented disappointment hung thick in the air.

The house was surrounded by a jungle of grasses, and was owned by a Priest with mad-blue eyes and prematurely grey hair. He spent more time in his church, than with his 'sobbing' wife; who spent her days rocking back and forth on the old yellowing rocking chair in the corner of the lounge. Her hair a haystack and her clothes a patchwork of moulding textiles. She rarely washed.

A young boy lived in the characteristic house, and spent many hours with his forehead pressed against the dirty glass of his bedroom window, admiring the neighbours home. Number twenty was in the sightline of his room; and it's whitewash walls, sparkling transparent windows, and flat lawn were a direct contrast to his own dwellings. Whilst other children from the neighbourhood pictured the inside of _his _house with dungeons and hidden crypts and bats and more cats than one could count; he himself spent his time fantasising about the scrubbed modern interior of the house next door. The boy thought of new electronic toys, and bunk beds. Of showers rather than vintage bath tubs which took hours to fill; and of mirrors that one could see more than an outline in. To him, the house seemed to be a paradise of modernism.

Though at such an early point in this story, it is of little importance; the young boy's name was Carlisle. Carlisle Cullen, to be precise. He had a head of dirty blonde hair, hidden beneath layers of dust and dirt; and big blue eyes, framed with the longest of lashes. His frame was small, as he was undernourished; but his cheeks were plump with baby-fat that he had yet to shake. The children at school called him 'Carley-Warley-Carlisle'. I'll leave the pronunciation to your imagination.

As you can imagine; Carlisle's childhood was three steps below 'pretty'…pretty damn dreadful, that is.

While on the subject, I should explain the nature of Carlisle's part in our story. He has no hidden powers; and neither is he a 'Prince Charming'. He is not popular, or unpopular - in fact, barely anybody notices him at all; he may as well be an entirely separate species. Finally, Carlisle is not a hero, at least not in the traditional sense. However, Carlisle is many things: he is smart, he is determined, and he is, quite frankly, a wonderful person.

Unfortunately, nobody seems to have noticed the boy that hides behind a rock-cut exterior; fashioned from birth, when his abysmal existence was begotten. Regrettably, for a boy of merely ten years old, Carlisle's life has been, on average, appalling.

When one initiates an archaeological investigation, they would do something called a 'desktop survey', beforehand. This means, quite simply, that before any gems of knowledge can be pulled up from the spoil; one must research the background information - leading them to assumptions and hypothesis' about what they will find below the topsoil.

Similarly to such an investigation, before we dig into Carlisle's story, we must understand a few important things about him and his background, for the things he has lived through have always influenced him. He is the sort of person who will take things on board and learn from them.

Carlisle's life began in Europe; Britain, in fact. In a small village in the North of Scotland. He spent a total of two years, three months in the country, before his family was uprooted by his father, and taken across the world to America. When in Britain, they had been a respectable family. His father had always worked as a priest; and his mother had owned a small flower shop together with a friend. The family moved when Mr Cullen's brother was charged with the rape and murder of several young girls in the area.

Rather than face the shame of the community, Mr Cullen stole away with his very pregnant wife and child during the night. They arrived in Chicago soon after.

Another year was spent in Chicago; from where they moved to the small town of Forks, Washington - following the offer of a job that Mr Cullen quickly took. By now, a second child had joined the family, and a third was well on the way. Mrs Cullen had always wanted a big family.

Alas, despite the fact that life was looking up, the move to Forks took the family literally and metaphorically into the storm. Rosie, Carlisle's baby sister, died from fever within a week of the move; and his mother had a miscarriage from her immense grief. And it rained. It rained _every _day.

Sometimes misery turns into depression, and depression spirals into madness. As a youngster, just old enough to understand, Carlisle witnessed the quick downward spiral of his mother's sanity. Until finally, she could barely walk, and thus spent her days in her chair. Rocking, and rocking, and rocking.

Whilst sobbing, and sobbing, and sobbing.

It broke Carlisle's childish heart to see his mother in such a state.

It also broke Mr Cullen's heart, which, over the course of a few years, turned to granite. Mr Cullen built walls around himself; they were erected tall, strong, impenetrable. His wife was blocked out of his heart - her madness hurt too much. And his son was too small to even see over the tops of them. Physical contact became limited. A pat on the head with a distant look in his eyes; or a brush of his arm as he pushed past the child on the way out of the house.

Though the man receded into himself to save himself from the pain of the outside world; inside, he found more demons. He gave them a name.

'Vampires' were what he saw. Creatures that ran through the shadows, and sucked the life from humans. He believed that God sent him the task of banishing them from the world he knew. In his spare time, he hunted them obsessively. Alienating him from society. 'Crazy Cullen', they called him. 'Crazy Cullens', they called the family.

Perhaps he believed that vampires had sucked the soul from his wife; sucked the sanity away.

But nobody would ever know; because nobody would ever ask.

At the point in Carlisle's story at which we join him, this is the past. Now the madness and the vampires and the nicknames are normal. Do you see the cruelties of a misunderstood childhood here? Forks didn't. Folks watched, folks jeered, folks turned a blind eye, and Forks tittered.

Carlisle endured.

And then Esme Platt moved in next door, told everyone to stop being cruel, fell in love with Carlisle, and they lived happily ever after, for ever and ever. The End.

Is what I'd like to say.

But, alas, no tale is so simple; though Esme Platt _did _move in to the house next door, on Carlisle's eleventh Birthday.

And things changed.

_**A/n: Well, this has been in my head for a while. I'm really, really enjoying the writing of this so far, and I hope other people are too. Please review and let me know whether to carry on; I'm not quite sure whether I should or not yet…**_


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/n: Enjoy! Review!**_

_**Chapter song: The Fear - Lily Allen**_

_**Chapter 2**_

Esme Platt moved to Forks, from Columbus, Ohio, when her father died. Her grandmother lived just outside of the small town, and so Mrs Platt had brought her daughter to the small, rainy place when she was ten years old. Though, as she enjoyed telling her peers, she was _almost _eleven.

Mrs Platt and her daughter moved into a large, white house, with a pretty green lawn, surrounded by flowerbeds, where bloomed buds of every different colour imaginable. Pinks and purples and blues and yellows and reds and oranges and…well, Esme would have to learn what the other colours were called at another time. She'd just started to learn the other names for colours when her father had passed away, and she'd put the project on hold because of her grief. She remembered her mother saying something about 'indigo and violet', but she wasn't _quite _sure as to which colour these names applied.

The day they moved in she and her mother drove into town in her father's old car. He'd had a fantastic job, so he'd left them with lots of money. Lots and _lots. _The skirt she wore that day had been a new purchase just before her father had died. It was long, and denim, with a large flower spreading up the side. She also wore a pretty white jumper, which had more flowers covering the breast. She felt very pretty. Her mother had even let her leave her hair down for the occasion; so her long caramel locks tumbled gently over her shoulder and down to just above her bottom.

When she got out of the car, Esme's button nose immediately wrinkled at the house next door; number 18. It looked dirty, and the grass was uncut. She decided not to go _there _anytime soon.

She soon forgot about number eighteen, however, when her mother took her hand, which was covered with pretty rings for the day, and led her into their own new house. Their things had been moved in the day before, and Esme's mother 'tutted' at the way it was decorated. Esme wondered through the rooms and replicated the 'tutting' noises.

"No, this will not do at all!" she announced to the empty room that was to be hers. A large bed sat in one corner of the room; and a large wardrobe sat in the opposite corner. She also had a little desk with a mirror, and a bookshelf. The walls were white. So very white; and plain.

Esme wanted rainbow-coloured walls. And vases of flowers all across the windowsill - to block the view of the ugly building next door. And most of all she wanted a record player. Just like the one her mother had in the lounge-room downstairs.

"Of course you can, sweetheart", her mother told her, patting her head distantly whilst they ate dinner. "Granny Platt will be round tomorrow, and you can get her to help you pick out whatever you want."

Esme and her mother looked extremely similar when they smiled. Both had puckered pink lips; the lower fuller than the top. Mrs Platt was a proud woman, one who had always gotten what she wanted, and her smiles, though rare, were terse and smug. When she heard her mother's small speech, Esme's own lips curved into the same sort of small, smug grin. Mrs Platt's eyes shone with pride.

Esme was the perfect little girl she'd dreamt of as a child. It was a shame her husband would never see her grow as tall and beautiful as his wife had been.

The deceased Mr Platt had been a tall, wiry gentleman, with a jovial sense of humour, and kind hands. He had bandaged Esme each time she had tripped; and had caught his wife every time she had fallen. They'd met when she'd toppled right into his arms at the party of a mutual friend. His daughter had inherited his neat tresses, his lithe figure, and his azure eyes. They'd played together in a rose garden when he was off work; and he'd shown her how to fly a kite.

Mrs Platt, in contrast, was a tall, proud woman; who's heart was buried deep inside her chest. Her blonde hair was cut into a fashionable 'bob', and her slender figure modelled the latest fashions - compliments of her husband. Her eyes were a dangerous grey, and her cheekbones were prominent. She'd taught Esme to drink tea, and had given her a bag of make-up for her ninth Birthday.

The young Miss Platt believed her parents were god's gift to mankind. Many of her friends had been jealous of her popular, rich father, and her socialite mother. Siobhan and Maggie, Esme's closest friends, had been two of the few girls in her year group that were not jealous of her wonderful family. Both had brilliant and wonderful parents of their own They were beautiful and smart and rich and nice. Plus, when Siobhan wanted something, she almost _always _got it. And _nobody _could lie to Maggie. Even her own _mother. _They'd found out that Santa Claus didn't exist _years _before anybody else did, because Maggie had asked.

Siobhan was already _engaged _and everything. Granted, it was to Liam, but as boys went, he wasn't too bad, and didn't seem to have any nasty diseases like lots of them did.

Esme was going to miss her friends from Columbus; but her mother had helped her get their addresses, and she was going to write to them a lot. She'd even bought special writing paper with pretty pictures in the corners, and on the envelopes. She was sure she'd make lots more friends here; but she'd remember to always tell them all that Siobhan and Maggie were her _best _friends. They were going to all live together when they were older. They weren't quite sure where yet, but they wanted to go somewhere sunny, and modern. The only fly in the ointment was that Liam would have to come too; seeing as he and Siobhan were getting married. Her parents had told her that by getting married to Liam, the family companies would benefit.

Esme had worked out a short while ago that 'benefit' generally equalled money. For example, Mr Platt's company had been left in the hands of some other men, but she and her mother were still going to 'benefit' from it. It sounded great; Esme wondered why her father hadn't handed over the business to other men sooner - then he could have always been on holiday with her and her mother.

After dinner, Esme returned to her room, and looked out of the window. She saw the ugly house next door, but looked downwards, and was surprised to see a boy who looked about her own age sitting in the jumble of weeds and grasses that grew around the next door garden. He had blonde hair, and wore an old t-shirt with ripped jeans. She turned her nose up slightly. Boys were disgusting.

She pulled herself back from the window, and closed the curtains. She got ready for bed, and fell asleep several hours later; to wake up in the morning, head resting on one of her favourite books.

_**A/n: Review?**_


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/n: Sorry, I know it's been a while…**_

_**Chapter 3**_

Perhaps on the day Carlisle Cullen and Esme Platt met, the stars aligned. Or perhaps the angels sang. Or perhaps the whole universe smiled.

But it was clear that Cupid was having an 'off day'. Because an arrow of love did not pierce the hearts of each, causing them to fall very much in love within moments of their momentous meeting.

In fact, our of context, the meeting was not momentous in the slightest; it was simply a normal hour, of a normal day, of a normal time. Esme had spent her summers day imagining that she was an explorer in her garden. Her perfectly cut terrace had become a jungle; and the prim roses had become vicious animals that she could calm with a touch of her little hand.

The meeting between our protagonist and our heroine occurred after a loud cry of 'ouch!' from our heroine, and a rushing to the scene from our hero.

Carlisle, you see, heard Esme's cry from the next door garden, where he had been lurking among the weeds, and came to her rescue.

"Are you okay?" he asked her - his first words to the girl next door.

"No!" she answered immediately with a pout. "Stupid rose!"

She kicked the offending plant daintily with one of her sandal-covered feet.

Carlisle then noticed the blood on her hand, and pulled it towards himself.

"Let me see", he said, timidly and gently. The girl did not answer, but watched the little boy wipe away the blood with his sleeve, and produce a plaster from his pocket, which he stuck over her bleeding wound.

"You need to look out for the thorns" he told her, suddenly sounding a little more confident in himself. Esme nodded mutely; she was recalling a time when her own father bandaged her hands. She had a sudden rush of affection for the boy before her.

"Thank you", she whispered softly, and watched as the boy's lips curled upwards a little, as though he were trying to smile, but couldn't. Then she heard a yell of her name from inside the house, and turned away from him. She ran across the garden, back up the steps, and into the house; where her mother was waiting for her with a plate of lunch, and a glass of orange juice.

Carlisle slunk back into the weeds of his garden, because there was really nothing else he could do in such a situation. But instead of returning to his house, he suddenly decided there was something he needed to do, and, without bothering to tell anybody - since there was nobody to tell, he took off in the direction of the town centre.

He stopped shortly before he arrived in town however, and snuck into the public toilets, which were located on the town road, about three minutes away from the first shop. Once he was inside, and had decided that there was nobody else inside, he quickly locked the door, and made his way over to the opposite side of the room.

Once he had crossed the dirty tiled floors, he found himself looking into a mirror; one which was far clearer than any of those at his home. Usually the boy cringed away from mirrors of any sort, because they showed him things he was not willing to see. He knew he was different to the other boys in his school. He was dirtier, and he was short. He was the blondest boy in his class, and he had old, nasty clothes; because that's all his parents could afford.

But today he looked, and he focused on his lips, which were soft and pink. He watched them as he tried to curve them upwards into an expression similar to those of the boys in school. They twitched up a little in the corners, but there was little difference. He then placed his fingertips at each end of his mouth, and pushed upwards, so his lips curved upwards in a strange manner. He tried to hold the pose when he took his fingers away, but his lips quirked downwards again and it looked odd to him.

Carlisle sighed loudly, and tried once more, before giving up.

He had only wanted to imitate the smile of the girl he had met that morning.

**_A/n: Oh CARLISLE! Review?_**


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